Timebomb
by Sudonim
Summary: The craziest man is the one who seems sanest but cannot possibly be. Jonathan Crane is that man. Slash, long-form drabble, violence, language, sexual content, terrorism.
1. Got a warning light

"D'you _knoooow_ what you _remind me_ of, Jonny-cake?"

Jon concentrates on the curls of his dark bangs brushing his scratch-pad in the thinning light from his camping lantern. The notched surface of his pen looks like the barrel of a gun as he glances down its length at his freshly-scrawled notes, his hand frozen in the writing of an 'x.'

"No, Jo, what's that?"

The Joker snorts, the scuffing of his leg against the inside of his polyester pants ceasing for a moment as the twitching man shifts positions in Crane's favorite chair. At least he's stopped pacing; the haphazard, restless strides shook the floorboards and made it impossible to focus the waning light from the D-battery-powered bulb. Any more light than that would attract attention, the Joker insisted, and he'd become maddeningly possessive of Jon since his work entered its final stages.

"You remind meeeee…of the Rabbi Bezalel, d'you know that, Jonny?"

"I'm sorry, _who_?"

He sets down his pen and glances up from his work, the Joker snorting with laughter at the look on his fellow's face. He'd become increasingly philosophical and erratic in the past week, coming and going at odd hours, leaving notes between the pages of Jon's books and trinkets by his glasses or under his tea cup, places Jon wouldn't expect to find them or things that he couldn't quite identify to begin with.

These tangents were his newest thing, and as the Joker licks his lips and shakes his head, Jon can tell he's about to get his ear chewed off, and just when he was really getting into the swing of his writing.

"The Rabbi Bezalel, Jonny, the good-God-li-est-man in Germany, before Hitler himself."

"I really have no _idea_ who you're talking about," Jon sighs, rubbing the tired lines beneath his eyes and reaching for his glasses, "But I can assure you this will do nothing but distract me, so please, entertain yourself at our…cumulative expense."

"_Expense_?" the Joker repeats, rising from his seat and beginning his maddening pacing again, this time in half-circles around Jon, cross-legged on the floor, "_IIIIII_ can assure_ you_, Jonny, that this _ffffuckery_ is anything but expensive. "

Jon rolls his eyes internally; what does the Joker think he's playing at, bursting in and taking up all his time? He's trapped here in the first place, by all senses and purposes, but he never imagined he'd have to serve as both mad scientist and psychologist to this most maddening of men.

"The Rabbi was a scientist, doc, like you," the Joker says, crouching suddenly in front of Crane, taking Jon by surprise. He recoils slightly, his hands on the floor behind his thighs, aware that the Joker is leaning over him, but doesn't dare push him back or point it out.

"Not _quite-_" Jon begins, but it's tangent-time at the O-K-Corral, and all he can do in lieu of the Joker's oppression is lay there and take it.

"Y'see, the Rabbi dabbled in creating, creating _things_ that were…shall we say, _unsssssavory_, things that could _walk_, and _talk_, and take the very _life_ of a man away from him…He _LIVED_ for the evil of it, _'I'_ think, but more than that….More than the _sin_ of a religious man_, I _think he did it for the _power_."

He reaches out and pushes a few strands of wayward hair back from his face, his favored blade tucked tightly in his palm, a frequent reminder of menace that they both knew to be as much for show as it was for play.

"I _think_, NO, I _know_, little sparrow, that _you_ do your work _for the saaaaame reasons_. You're such a _cute_ little fuck, you know that?"

Without thinking, Jon curls his lip and bunches his muscles, as unimpressive as they are, and slams his palms against the Joker's shoulders, knocking him flat on his ass. The knife skitters away across the floor, and the dull thudding echo of the floorboards rattling hangs in the air of the otherwise silent flat, both men as flabbergasted with the other as they are with themselves.

"….J-…_Jesus_, I'm _sor-_…"

Jon can't bring himself to apologize. Even if he wasn't stuttering incoherently from abject terror, he wouldn't want to apologize, anyway. _Let _ the Joker think he's got Crane fooled, let him think he has an unsuspecting victim on his hands, let him think whatever he God-damn-well pleases, but there's no way Jon's going to sit idly by and let himself be objectified _and_ brutalized in the name of villainy and chaos.

He'd rather choke on a dick than be made to look like one.


	2. Pull the plug out

He sniffs heavily, ignoring the incessant drum of rain on the metal roof, his puffy and swollen hands more irksome than the endless noise in his head, making him weary and aggressive. He hates working with this stuff, but would rather bear the discomfort than admit his weaknesses to his captor. He feels it's better to suffer alone than let the Joker torment him further.

Each canister is labeled by hand, blue Sharpie in loopy scrawl over brushed nickel, running his palms around the cylindrical metal exteriors as he flattens their camouflage meticulously. The sweat collecting beneath his rebreather is no match for his self control: No way will he succumb to that comfort urge, not with blistering hands and dangerous chemicals potentially tainting the air. He just has to hurry, is all. Hurry up and be careful.

An hour more and he's finished. He can barely close the door behind him and hit the complicated series of switches and knobs needed to trigger the decontamination station, but he knows that he's done his job well and completely, so he can take his time. He can relax. He can take that damn breathing mask off and breathe.

There's a shower at the end of the warehouse, the sea-bound and rotting tin can in Gotham Harbor the Joker was kind enough to procure for his work. He only comes here when directed, when he needs to work, and he walks the whole way alone with the Joker lurking in the shadows. They can't be seen, together or separate, but the Joker not at all, and so they have to risk the back alleys and dark places that still fear Jon Crane's masked face less than his horn rimmed glasses. Right now, though, he just wants to wash away the stain of 24hours' straight work and nearly a week without sunlight.

Every time it starts cold and builds slowly to a scalding burn, numbing and searing his skin, but he doesn't shy away from the high-intensity stream. Something about this passive, wet stimulation, rivulets and pulses running through his hair and down his neck, coursing over his shivering frame…It soothes him. His face resolves in a placid smile and he waits, patiently, for the water to turn cold once again.

Stepping out he remembers the blast chiller is still waiting for him to set the timer lock. Shoes can wait; he tugs on faded pants over old skivvies, and decides to forego the buttons on his shirt as he flicks his damp hair over the wilting collar. The cold air is pleasant against his bare chest, the flutter of fabric a tickle against his sides as his feet slap against the concrete. He thinks this could be perfect, just like this, if he could be left alone to cultivate his demons. They could be perfect if only the Joker would let him tend them like this, without being pulled away, without his relentless antagonizing visits-

Shoes scuff behind him, but he ignores it. If the Joker wants to make an unannounced entrance and spoil his own surprise, that's none of Jon's business. He knows he has to focus on his work right now; this part is crucial. Correct storage can mean the world in terms of shelf life, and while he may love working his chemical magic, he doesn't relish working with the brunt ballistics biologicals like these. The interface is asking for his passcode, and he hurriedly taps in the 18-digit key, rewarded with the sound of hissing airlocks.

"Sarin, huh?" a gravelly voice grumbles, the short hairs all over Jon's body standing on edge. "Strange name…She your girlfriend or something, Jonny-boy?"

A half-sneer is all the man behind him can offer, and even though he knows what he's about to see, Two Face's propinquity propels him backward onto the console, suddenly glad he'd locked the keyboard before his palms mashed it.

"Harv…Two Face, how'd you get in-?"

"It's rude to ignore a guest's questions, y'know," Two Face mocks, both sides of his face drained of emotion. He leans closer, hands on Jon's now, enjoying the look of terrorized nausea on his prey's face. "I don't even remember being _invited_ to this little soirée, come to think of it. _Very_ rude indeed, Mr. Crane."

Jon holds his breath as he feels himself pushed backward further onto the console, his bare feet resting on the tops of Two Face's leather loafers. The part of his youthful mind dominated by old horror films and zombie revivals is convinced he's about to have his throat torn out, but his logical mind knows something far worse is in store. He forcibly gathers the last shreds of his composure, convinces himself that it's alright to breathe…

"Mr. Dent, despite our current situation, it was never my intention to step on your toes."

Two Face cocks his available eyebrow; his impression of a smirk. At least he's entertained, and the look is less reassuring than threatening. Lunging forward, Jon's breath hitches as his unclothed chest feels the pressure of Two Face's partially ravaged body against him.

"Then you won't mind telling me what all these metal containers are about," Two Face growls in his ear, hands shifting from wrists to upper arms, squeezing painfully tight. "What's Joker up to, Scarecrow? What's he got you tangled up in? Why are you working with him, anyway? Are you two fucking or something?"

Jon goes glassy; he can't think, respond, breathe…He leers for a second, or maybe swoons from holding his breath, but realizes his weightlessness isn't light headed. Two Face has flung him aside, and as soon as this dawns on him, a brilliant blossom of pain bursts across his forehead and shoulder blade, resonating down his spine, rattling his ribs and hips. He bounces once and flops on his back, distantly aware that Two Face is standing over him, letting stringy trails of spit drip on his face as the dead corner of his mouth droops a sneer.

"Let's get something straight, Jon," Two Face calls down the echoing tunnel closing around Jon's consciousness, "I may hate the people in this city, but I'd kill to protect it."

The coin. It's beside his head, the metal on concrete a bell struck within a jar, dropping fate like lead hammers.

Heads. Damn.

_**WHAM**_

A shoe slams down over the coin as Two Face reaches to retrieve it. Dusky brown patent leather, scuffed shiny, its laces trailing and ratty. That shoe hit him in the head once, while he was scribbling nasty pictures and making fun of Joker's make up, the last time he got really drunk off the mouthwash for lack of better distraction.

"Hello, _Harvey_."


End file.
